Be Jealous: A series of one shots
by corneroffandom
Summary: A few one shots about John Morrison and Miz, all are gen, and no slash is intended. Each story is separate from the others. I may add a few more later on, or may not. Depends what my muse tells me, and what WWE does with these two.
1. Tactics

ECW AU (July 2nd, 2008)

Miz is steaming. There are no better words for it. He figures if he takes a swim right now, the place would be foggy within seconds. As he examines the murky hotel water with a dull eye, he ponders his missing partner.

Morrison is usually the punctual one, annoyed when Miz takes even a minute too long to get ready for a match. So this set of circumstances confuses Miz a good deal.

Fact was, Morrison was supposed to meet with Chavo and he before their match against Matt Hardy, Finlay and the runt known as Hornswoggle. He didn't show, which Chavo took great pleasure taunting Miz about. It was when Morrison didn't show to the match itself that Miz began worrying.

Morrison hadn't acted any differently the last time Miz saw him, so there were no reasons to stress out but one hour turned twothreefour, and no word at all.

Miz sighs glumly, glaring down into the water like it is his own personal enemy and swallows thickly. Something tells him he should notify people that Morrison has disappeared-- it was bad enough that Teddy Long was ticked off due to his no showing--, but John is a pretty private person and Miz doesn't want to piss his partner off just when they were finally cementing their tag title run as something long term.

Finally coming to a decision, he pushes away from the railing and heads back to the room he had booked before the event, staring at the dull brown carpet thoughtfully. He blinks when the carpet turns into two familiar boots. "Morrison?" he blurts, his gaze sliding up quickly to his downed partner, a confused look appearing on his face. "Oh God."

John is stretched out towards the door of Miz's room, twitching sporastically, still in his wrestling clothes from the last time Miz saw him. Bruises cover every portion of his body that Mike can see, some of the cuts scattered among them still oozing blood.

He quickly kneels down by his partner's head, one hand hovering over his back and the other brushing his hair out of his face quickly, to see if he's conscious or not. "John? You with me?"

"Mike?" the downed man whispers, hand twitching slightly by Miz's knee.

"Hey, yeah, it's me." He has so many questions begging to be asked, but the top one is-- "Where were you? What happened?!"

"Fin-lay," he mutters slowly, coughing weakly as even speaking sparks pain through his upper body. "Finlay grabbed me earlier today and locked me up somewhere, I dunno what happened..."

"Finlay," Miz mutters, marking up another reason to hate the man to his already sizeable list. "Do you think you need a trainer?"

"N-no," Morrison mutters, looking away. "Just get me into the room."

Startled, because he's never requested help at all before, Miz automatically leans over and aids Morrison's weary attempts at standing, quickly unlocking the door as soon as he's somewhat secure on his feet. "Do you need anything?" he asks awkwardly, quirking an eyebrow as John falls face first onto the only bed in the room.

"Not right now," he grimaces, bunching a fist into the pillows.

Recognizing it as his partner's usual tactics for hiding pain, Miz weighs calling the trainer as he examines him. "Alright then," he forces out, heading for the bathroom, where his pain pills are at.

"Miz?" John calls as he rustles through the medicine cabinet. "Did... What happened with the match?"

A tinge of regret is present in the man's voice, and Miz pauses, seeing red for a minute because _dammit_, it's not John's fault. "We lost," he calls back, keeping his voice low and dull so his partner won't catch on to how much the loss bothered him. "But there'll be other nights."

"I'm sorry." John speaks so low, Miz almost isn't sure he's heard him correctly, but he doesn't want to ask and embarrass them both further, so he finishes and tosses a bottle of pain pills onto the bed silently as he reenters the room.

"Think you'll be ready for action Tuesday?" he asks, flooding his tone with sarcasm to hide his worry as Morrison shifts and winces slightly.

"Of course," he grunts, voice gravelly as he slowly reaches out for the pills next to him.

Miz knowingly looks away, fiddling with the TV until he hears Morrison drop the bottle, pills safely taken. "So what're we going to do about Finlay?"

Morrison shrugs slightly, then locks eyes with him, an intense glance passing between them before turning back to the TV like the last few days haven't happened. "We'll figure it out."

It's not much of an answer, but somehow it makes Miz feel better.


	2. Untitled

When Estrada is General Manager, things like this are easier-- matches can be made with a little ego stroking, changed with a bit of a bribe, or canceled completely if he isn't in the mood to listen to your complaining.

So when Estrada is fired, and Teddy takes over, the transition period is a bit painful. Most of them know of Teddy from Smackdown, but didn't have to deal with him very much. Only people who were originally on Smackdown know of how he gets when in a place of power-- Miz and Morrison being two of them.

They're avoiding him fine until one day, Miz is wandering through the halls when he spots Hornswoggle all alone, clicking his heels and chattering in his annoying way to himself.

After hours of not seeing his son, Finlay finds the little guy locked up in a storage closet, freaking out due to bad memories from his time as Vince's son.

A quick complaint to Teddy later, and Miz is being escorted from the building, despite both his and Morrison's arguments against it.

"Morrison," Long calls as soon as the door's slammed behind Miz, eyeing his tag partner with something close to a smirk on his lips. "You have a match tonight, playa."

He thinks he knows but he asks anyway, "Who?" No point in wasting time talking to the GM anyway, the demanding older man will do as he wishes either way.

"Finlay." And yes, that is a smirk on Teddy's face as he turns and walks away. "Good luck, holla."

It's times like these he starts to hate green.

--

The match is typical-- Hornswoggle interrupts, Morrison gets drenched with a watergun, and Finlay hits him with a low blow while the referee is distracted, leaving his eyes watering and everything muddled long enough for a quick pin. The only things out of the normal is the lack of Miz, and what happens after the quick pin.

He's used to squinting up in anger as the two Irish freaks dance and put on a show for the audience before leaving, but this time, they're standing off to the side, muttering to each other. He doesn't really care, just wants to get out of here, and find Miz so they can think up some proper retribution for next week, but before he even regains his balance completely, something stabbing shoots up his leg and he goes back down.

Curling up does very little to stop the beat down that follows, or the pain that covers every inch of his body like one of his many coats. He's wondering where the refs are when finally the pain subsides slightly-- or at least doesn't get any worse--and he can open his eyes, recoiling slightly as Hornswoggle dodges between referees' legs and sends the shillelagh slamming down on his chest once more, leaving stars behind in his vision.

The blow's not as strong as Finlay's, for sure, but still leaves him wheezing as finally the refs shoo Hornswoggle and his father away and trainers come to look Morrison over.

He can't help but think Teddy's an idiot as darkness smothers him.

--

Hearing comes back first, as the trainer says quietly, "Bruised ribs. It looks worse than it is. He was lucky."

He wants to open his eyes, confirm the owner of the huffing sigh that brushes through his hair from somewhere overhead, but just listening is exhausting him right now so he doesn't push his luck.

"How long's he been out?" a voice definitely not the trainer's asks, and Morrison relaxes further.

"Not long, a minute or two," no name trainer says lowly. "We brought him back here to keep an eye on him, but he's been stirring so the doc on hand says to give him a minute. He did take a couple good hits."

Footsteps reveal the trainer leaving and Morrison fights harder to get his eyes to open but it's like trying to force a glued door with a dresser in front of it open. Finally it happens, his eyes slip open and he flinches away from the light overhead.

Miz curses slightly, causing Morrison to snicker through the pain of both his eyes and the familiar throb of his abdomen, before going to turn off the lights.

"They let you back in, huh?" John mutters, letting his eyes close for a second before opening them long enough to blink away the moisture that had pooled beneath his lashes.

"Trainer was a Real World fan," his tag partner comments, proud of this fact if the smugness of his tone is any indication. "Snuck me in and back here while Teddy was dealing with the leprechaun. What he's planning on doing, I dunno. They'll probably get more title shots now."

Morrison snorts, instantly regretting it as his ribs shoot pain down to his toes nearly. "Ugh, don't do that," he hisses once he can breathe again.

"Sorry," Mike says in a bored tone, but his eyes are sharply locked on Morrison's face, watching for... anything really. "You wanna get out of here?" he asks finally, running a hand through his hair like he does when he's annoyed, or worried, or both.

"No, I think we should just live here," John responds, grimacing as he presses one hand to his ribs and the other to the side of the cot, levering himself up. "Let's go."

As he walks stiffly to the door, Miz collects their things and follows him. "The trainer'll want--"

"I know. I'll catch him tomorrow," he grits out, pain coursing through his body at the same speed as his thoughts.

The Bash is barely five days away; it's time to end this feud.


	3. Losing

**This fic is odd-- I'm just writing it while I wait for the pre-Bash show to end but I'm not even sure I'm ultimately going to post it, because this fic is based on Morrison and Miz losing their belts tonight. I like the fic idea, but I hope they don't. If they do, however, I will be 30 minutes into this thing. Perhaps past the most painful part, eh? lol. **pouts at own prePPV words Frig.

--

FIC:

It is over, their nearly nine month title reign ended last night, in a very disgusting manner. Morrison had been injured anyway after Festus slammed him into the ramp on Friday and the bruises on his face were still darkening at the time of the match.

It wasn't Morrison's fault, nor was it his, but Miz can't help feeling annoyed and the fact that his tag partner has since disappeared is not helping with it.

Miz decides to distract himself and turns on Raw to find CM Punk in the ring, rambling about Kane interrupting his match against Batista. Stress from the past week pushes Miz into sleepiness, and he shifts slightly, unable to keep his eyes open. He drifts for awhile, jerking awake when Punk, King and Cole's voices rise a bit now and again.

Consciousness smacks him upside the head like a wave of ice water when he hears a familiar theme coming from the TV. His eyes slam open and he stares in confusion as Morrison appears at Raw, bruises still obvious around his sunglasses. "What the hell?" he curses, nearly falling off the bed as he shifts into a sitting position. He grips the remote, turning the volume up, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he squints at the TV.

Punk looks somewhere between angry and amused, as Morrison waits for his theme to die down. In contrast, John's unhappiness is obvious by how stiff he's holding himself, and Miz is stuck watching, hoping his tag partner's not about to do something stupid.

"What're you doing here?" Punk asks, before he can speak. "This isn't even your show, man. Go back to ECW."

Miz groans as Morrison's jaw clenches. _If he gets anymore annoyed, he's gonna explode right there on the stage..._

"I have every right to be here," Morrison begins, flicking his sunglasses off in an unusually uncaring move. His eyes are small, angry slits of brown, an expression Miz has never seen on his face before. Suddenly he's glad he's not at his partner's side, because he's been through enough lately. Getting caught up in this tidal wave of anger he can _sense_ from the man is a frightening thought that leaves him on edge because emotions like this can be a two way sword, especially in wrestling. "It's not like you have a GM to keep me away, right?" He sneers slightly, before dropping his sunglasses. "I want a match."

Punk pauses and says, "Good for you. I--"

Morrison interrupts, disdain dripping from his lips in time with his words. "I want a match. Right now. For your title. Do you understand me?"

Punk rolls his eyes but agrees easily, pulling his shirt off and shaking out his hands as Morrison makes his way to the ring, a referee behind him, looking jittery as the two wrestlers circle each other like a couple of wolves about to fight to the death to be leader of the pack.

Miz forces himself to relax against the bed as the two men fall into common opening holds-- a couple lock ups here, an arm drag there, Morrison forces him into the turnbuckle and reluctantly pushes away when the ref begins yelling at him to let Punk out of the corner. Both men know each other quite well, had never quite stopped hating each other, so Miz tries not to worry.

The match works into more flashier moves as they relax into their individual styles, some of the anger slowly seeping out of Morrison's body as he gets distracted while keeping up with Punk. They're maybe five minutes into it, Miz still keeping a close eye on things, when the lights go out. He jerks into a sitting position once more, wondering if it's a technical difficulty or something else, when a dull gleam of light slowly grows... spreads... casts a dull red shine over the ring, revealing Morrison and Punk both.

The champion is down, in a corner, watching as a tall form that seems to mesh seamlessly with the red glow and is barely visible drags John to his feet and grips him with rabid hands, clawing at his throat and lifting him up over his own head. The light shifts and suddenly Miz can see his face-- it's Kane, but he looks more demented than he has in a _long, long_ time, and his tag partner is held up, kicking fruitlessly as the grip around his neck tightens.

Miz can see him struggling to breathe from here and he's half tempted to just get in the car and go, except that it's over a five hour drive from Pennsylvania to Connecticut, and it'd be rather pointless. If anything, he and Morrison would more than likely just miss each other, since he figures John will now have to take a flight after some recovery because driving would probably be out of the question.

He breathes through his nose loudly as Morrison is finally released and slung across the ring, and even Punk looks a bit worried as he just lays there, unmoving.

For a moment, he remembers back when they were rivals, both fighting for the ECW title, or fresh tag team champions, still learning each other's style to best compliment it. Morrison was actually easy to toss around, and Miz used to think he was nothing special for that reason, seeing him do flips due to some moves that would make some people barely flinch. But there was a strange strength deep inside, beyond his aerodynamic style that surprised Miz once he began considering it seriously and it meshed quite well with his own style.

He watches for a few minutes more, sees a slightly more alert John helped out of the arena by refs and trainers-- Punk of all people had to go get help for him, and that's just disturbingly stupid--, and sighs, returning to his lazy position on the bed. Relaxing is out of the question now, so he just lies there, thinking about what he should say or do when he sees Morrison tomorrow.

--

Tomorrow comes much too soon, but it's like Morrison's hiding from him because the show's beginning in five minutes and Miz still hasn't seen his partner anywhere. He has a weird feeling about all of this, but it's so... career suicidal that he doesn't even want to consider it. It doesn't stop him from holding his breath painfully when Mark Henry's ear grating music plays and he and Tony Atlas come out, a proud Colin Delaney tagging after them.

Apparently life is against Miz, however, because Henry's barely been out there mumbling for ten seconds when again Morrison's music begins playing and the man appears on stage once more, foregoing his usually flashy entrance to stare down at Mark. Bruises now set along his throat, matching the duller ones around his eyes and forehead.

Miz hits his head against the back of the chair as he watches, feeling like he's witnessing a car wreck- wild, stupid and impossible to stop. Apparently his partner lost his mind when they lost the belts.

Delaney and Atlas share confused glances as Henry fumbles for the mic. "What do you think you're doin', interruptin' us?!" he demands, sweat or oil or whatever-- Miz never wants to know what exactly it is-- splashing all over from his beard as he snarls down the ramp at Morrison.

Miz had hoped that the twenty four hours that passed between him challenging Punk to now would've been enough time for Morrison to relax, but it's obvious it wasn't, as the twitch in John's jawline is even more blatant. Miz forces himself to watch as Morrison marches towards the ring, hand clenching and unclenching.

Morrison's voice is gravelly when he finally speaks, his throat obviously hurting him as he pauses outside of the ring and glares upwards, the bruises even more obvious in the lights overhead. "I want a title shot," he declares, hand subconsciously going for his throat in the middle of the sentence.

Scoffs go all around from the three men in the ring as Miz drops his head to his chest briefly at this slight. Sure enough, when he looks up, his partner looks even more incensed and all the yelling he's doing can't be helping his throat at all.

"Dammit," he mutters, heading for the titantron. By the time he arrives, the match is already winding down because Henry has Morrison in a tight bear hug, draining the strength and oxygen from his already taxed body, shaking him every so often. Finally the ref calls it, and Henry throws John nearly out of the ring as Atlas and Delaney enter to celebrate with him.

Miz figures it won't be the end of this, but hopes for Morrison's sake, he just ends this here now. Another match after all of this...

--

Smackdown starts quietly enough for Miz; he sees no sign of Morrison, but that's no big surprise. The man's been avoiding him, after all. So when it's towards the end of the show, and Miz is relaxing after a simple match against Jimmy Wang Yang that went easily enough in his favor, he's startled more than he should be when Morrison's music starts up for the third time this week on national televison.

Cursing out his own stupidity, he trails off towards the titantron once more, jaw clenching every time he sees footage on monitors of Morrison taunting HHH, trying to force the "King of Kings" out of hiding for another title shot. Of course, it doesn't take long before it happens and H is heading for the ring, his own special angry look straining his features.

"Does Morrison have a death wish?" some random tech asks near Miz, and cowers as the wrestler glares at him. "Sorry," he mumbles, going back to work.

Morrison's fourth match in a week breezes by as well, which is obvious since he's gasping before the match even gets going thanks to a well placed punch by HHH to his still tender abdomen. He barely gets in two punches before he's knocked down, trying to double up as H knees him in the stomach a couple more times. He's not even straightened out when Hunter spins him onto his stomach and hooks his arms around the man's throat after pushing his left arm between his legs in the infamous crossface.

Tapping out isn't even an option here, as John's eyes roll up in the back of his head again and the ref finally calls it after Miz watches for far too long, and dammit, the match is over but HHH looks like he wants some more revenge so the Chick Magnet rushes out there, sliding far enough into the ring to grab Morrison by the tights and drag him out to safety. "Enough!" he yells at HHH, twitching in annoyance as his bruised, semi-conscious partner groans at his feet. "That's enough!"

Miz glares when a ref offers to help him get Morrison into the back until the older man backs off, a worried grimace on his lips. "C'mon," he tells his partner, hooking his arm around his shoulders and stumbling a bit up the ramp till he gets used to the extra weight. "You seriously need to cut this out," he comments lowly, as they inch closer to the locker room. "Do you want to commit career suicide?"

John's coming to now, and Miz swallows at the pattern of bruises that cover his face (nearly faded, though they are) and the still brilliant ones that scatter across his throat and midsection thanks to Kane and Mark Henry. The crossface couldn't have helped with that at all. "Miz?" he grinds out, trying to push away from the man.

"Yeah," Mike comments, ignoring his struggles to get away.

"Wha' the ...?" he cuts off, as his voice fades again.

"Hang on." A few more steps and they're inside the locker room, where Miz lowers him down onto a bench and kneels in front of him, taking in his battered form. Ignoring his flailing limbs, he reaches up and touches the man's throat, grimacing at the slight swelling there. "Have you seen a trainer?"

"Yes," he grunts. "Nothing they can do, I just have to wait for the bruising to fade."

Miz nods and turns away, stalling as he collects his crap and stuffs it in the duffle he always uses. The show's over anyway, so they-- he-- whatever-- can go soon.

"I'm not trying to commit career suicide," Morrison announces vaguely after a few minutes of awkwardness.

Miz stiffens at this comment and turns his attention back. "Then what were you doing this past week? Ignoring me, wrestling every title holder..."

"Eight months, man. It was eight friggin months. Those belts became the most important part of my career, and we lost them to Edge's cronies. It's not right."

"No disagreements here, but why demand title matches from Punk, Henry and HHH? Hell, I wouldn't mind going after the tag belts again."

"I wanted to prove I could still do it-- take on bigger guys and hold my own, like when I was ECW champ." He snorts unhappily. "Did an awesome job of that, hm?"

Miz shrugs in an almost disinterested way, leaning against the doorway as he examines his partner. "You were injured thanks to Festus. Off your game from losing the belts without _really_ losing them. Whoever judges you based on that are idiots anyway."

Morrison pauses briefly, then nods. "You're right."

"Usually am," he smirks, turning back to packing. "So, do we want to use our rematch clause for Friday?" He glances out of the corner of his eye to see if Morrison will react to the blatant stall while he heals tactic, but he doesn't even flinch.

"Sounds good."

_Yes, it does._ "Alright then, let's get out of this hellhole then. I have an idea for the next Dirt Sheet..."


	4. Priceless

It's been two long, annoying weeks since the tag belts were taken from them when something happens to smack the memory of the Great American Bash right back into the forefronts of their memories.

Morrison is half asleep when something smacks into him, sending him nearly off the side of the bed. "Whaaaaaa?!" he groans, checking himself before he can totally fly off the side.

"You gotta look at this, man, they stole our gimmick!" Miz growls, brandishing the remote at the TV.

Morrison watches blankly as Cena and Batista stare each other down, the Raw tag belts-- which are NOT half as sexy as the Smackdown tag belts _were--_ held in their fists as they urge the crowd into cheering. "Gimmick?"

"Yeah! Two guys who hated each other winning the belts and meshing into a successful, long term tag team! Damn, they're not even doing it right," he grunts, as the hatred the new champs feel for each other is visible even from the TV screen.

John sighs and slumps back on the bed, punching a pillow a couple times before dropping his head on it. "How long do you think _theirs_ will last?"

"Definitely not eight months," Mike mutters, returning to channel surfing as Morrison falls back asleep.

_Definitely_, is his last thought.

--

A week later, after two Dirt Sheets and a beat down from both Mark Henry and Matt Hardy, they're back in mirror images of the previous Monday-- Miz the one sleeping during Raw, and Morrison watching Cena and Batista fumbling through their tag match like a couple of brainless children unknowledgeable of the fine art of tag teaming.

Miz is a light sleeper compared to Morrison, however, so he doesn't throw anything to attract his partner's attention. Simply turning the TV volume up does the trick, as King and Cole's voice blares through the room and Miz jerks up, yelling, "What?! What?!"

Morrison snickers, fighting to school his face as he sits back comfortably and stares meaningfully at the TV.

His tag partner glares for a bit before turning to look at Raw. "They're at it again?"

"Yep."

"They still aren't even trying!"

"Mm hmm."

"I give 'em three minutes," Miz comments after Batista slaps Cena in the face similar to how Cena had slapped him just a week prior.

"That many? I say two," Morrison counters, smirking when his partner sighs. "Winner has to start off against Henry tomorrow."

"Fine, starting at 9:55," he says before settling back too, to watch.

It's barely a minute later when Ted rolls up Cena. Both men stare at the TV as the match ends and Dave and Cena begin fighting for the audience's attention, as if their one week tag title reign didn't make them look stupid enough already.

"Well," Morrison begins. "That was..."

"A waste of time? Pathetic? Annoying?"

"All of the above," he says, glancing at the clock. "Doesn't Raw usually go over by, about, five minutes, at least?"

"Yeah," Miz mutters. "It's ending on time. That's scary."

"It really is."

"Ah well, just proves it-- no one can be as amazing as us."

Morrison smirks. "True."

When Miz looks back over, his tag partner's frowning with an annoyed look on his face. "What?"

"Eh? Oh. Nothing... I just, think I have Dibiase and Rhodes' theme music stuck in my head."

Miz cringes sympathetically.


	5. Standing Guard

Dedicated to my father (6/7/46-8/16/08). You never got to read any of my stories, but I imagine if you could've been around when I start attempting to get something published, you would've been the first to buy a copy. RIP. I miss you.

You learn quickly in this business that even average paranoia usually isn't enough-- someone's always gunning for you, and you have to watch everything and everyone, just in case. Something could be innocuous one moment and deadly the next-- it is the way of the business. Having a tag team partner could be beneficial and worrying at once-- they could turn on you at any moment, but also could protect you and your goals if used right.

Like life, it's a gamble. When they lose the belts and get over the initial anger, Miz moves on, puts his ECW title dreams on hold for the moment and continues trusting Morrison, because Golden Boy Matt Hardy is like a dog with a bone when he gets going and Miz isn't ready to argue with Teddy about _that _one.

After the six man match, one of those possibly innocuous, probably deadly moments happen and Miz is too happy that he's _won _a match after much too long of a dry spell that he brushes it off when Dreamer glares at him the whole time he walks up the ramp, bragging cockily with Chavo, Bam and Morrison.

It's not even an hour later that he remembers the paranoia rule of the WWE. It's, unfortunately, too late.

--

It's something really stupid, too, that makes him go back alone through the darkening halls of the arena, still feeling a bit of a high from the win. He's forgotten his favorite hat in the locker room, and tells Morrison to stay behind, it'll only take a minute.

He's nearly at the room when something behind him whacks against the floor, echoing warningly in the empty hallway. Everything freezes, sight, sound, feeling, smell... He can feel how his feet press against the soles of his shoe, how his hands hover in midair, waiting to grasp the handle, but that's all. He slowly drops his hand and turns. Before his eyes can register what they're seeing, pain stabs between his eyes and he goes down hard as darkness greets him.

--

He stays in the car begrudgingly as Miz returns to the building to get a scarf or hat or whatever thing his partner left behind this time. He's tired, hungry and a bit sore and just wants to go back to the hotel and sleep 'til they need to travel to the next stop, but it's Miz's turn to drive so he sits back and sucks it up before images of the match tonight runs through his mind. He recalls stumbling up the ramp as Dreamer is aided by Evan and Super Crazy, and wondering why Dreamer is glaring at them before realizing his ire is aimed at Miz.

He's in the middle of yawning when it hits him-- the glaring, the lengthy amount of time it's taking Miz to go down two hallways and get his lost-whatever and return-- and he's out of the car and in the building within four seconds. He doesn't even pay attention to the people he's running past when he spots his partner-- down on the floor in front of the locker room they had been sharing earlier. Tommy Dreamer is looming over him, slowly picking him apart with his well-known best friend (Probably his only friend, Morrison decides with a quiet scoff), the Kendo stick.

Perhaps it's his tiredness or the soreness from the match, but he's heard or spotted because Dreamer spins around and, before he can think or react, he's pinned to the wall, stick held against his throat so he's crushed between the slabs and the wood, Dreamer's arm adding more pressure to his windpipe.

"Ggghhh..." he wheezes, flailing against Tommy's body fruitlessly. The hallway's looking like a crack addict's version of a kaleidoscope as spots dance in front of his eyes when a yell comes from nearby and Dreamer's weight disappears abruptly a little later, causing Morrison to slump forward, landing awkwardly near Miz, who's somewhat awake now and begins inching towards him.

"Morrison--" he manages, flopping down almost on top of him by accident, going cross eyed nearly as blood streams down his nose from a nice sized gash between his eyes. "You ok?"

John touches his throat tentatively, grimacing before his fingers even make contact. "Yeah yeah. You?" He scans his tag partner once more, examining the cuts and bruises caused by the kendo. He ignores his answer as a more pressing question returns to the forefront of his mind-- he looks around to find Dreamer being held back by two referees, one of whom-- the newer one, amazingly enough-- is reading Dreamer the riot act for attacking superstars like that.

He's threatening to take the matter to Teddy Long when Morrison's seen enough-- God knows if it was Matt Hardy or Evan Bourne or anyone Teddy liked getting attacked like this, the ECW General Manager would've known within seconds--, so he reluctantly pushes himself to his feet, wavering slightly as the kaleidoscope look returns briefly. When he can see without the fun floaty feeling, Miz is back on his feet too, gripping his shoulder tightly. "You with me?"

"I think so," John says, rotating his shoulder till Miz lets it go.

"Good," he says lightly. "As if I want to drag you back to the rental."

Morrison smirks, before his eyes lock on the nasty cut still oozing a bit of blood down Miz's face. "Guess I'm driving again."

"What!? Why? You can barely stay awake!"

"And you can barely stand," he shoots back. "Don't you know being strangled by a kendo can be considered a wake up call? Come on." They both struggle together to support each other back to the car, Morrison ignoring each grimace and growled groan, and Miz ignoring the painful sounding breaths. They both ignore Dreamer cursing out the referees behind them.

Paranoia's an asset, but a good tag team partner who'll watch your back is even better, after all.

"Wait... my hat!"

"...Miz? Shut up about the damn hat."


	6. Seasonal

Every time the seasons begin changing, it happens like clock work. Miz never really says anything but Morrison isn't sure how the man can't notice, especially when they share locker rooms, hotel rooms, rental cars...

It's just something John's endured his whole life, so he never complains because he's prepared for it but coupled with the rigorous touring schedule WWE follows, I-can't-really-tell-if-I'm-breathing-but-I-think-my-brain's-about-to-explode kind of colds knocking him down every few months truly screws with his rhythm.

It's just his luck that one of these seasonal colds hit not long after he's annoyed Teddy Long, who starts making him wrestle single matches every event to teach him a lesson, or some worthless nonsense like that. Lessons aren't needed in the palace of wisdom, but what does Long know anyway?

Then Miz gets on Long's bad side, and is blocked from ringside every match Morrison competes in so he has no one to watch his back, and his cold keeps getting worse, since he has no time to truly relax, between traveling, competing, and everything else.

By the time the next ECW taping comes around, he's feeling very groggy and the AC is broken in this arena apparently, because it feels about a hundred and twenty degrees no matter where he goes. As soon as they're in the locker room assigned to them, he drags his heavy, thick coat off and slings it haphazardly onto a near by chair before going into the bathroom to splash cool water on his face. "What?" he asks, looking up to find Miz staring at him oddly from next to the chair his coat's drifting off of onto the floor.

"You alright?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Morrison wonders, shaking most of the water out of his hair as he goes to retrieve his coat.

Not wanting another confrontation-- been enough of those since Miz got himself banned from ringside for trying to help Morrison win--, Mike backs down and shrugs, rustling through his duffle bag to look busy as his tag partner stares down at him.

Time goes by fast, and Morrison realizes his match is next as a referee knocks on the door. "You're up!" Who's more surprised, he's not sure, himself, the ref or Miz, because he's usually the type who doesn't need called to the ring.

"See you," he mutters to Mike, quickly flipping his coat over his shoulders before speed walking to the titantron.

--

The match is impossible. The lights are burning into his skin, Evan Bourne is dizzying as he runs circles around John, leaving him dazed. Numerous camera flashes make him want to curl up in a ball and never leave his hotel room again, but intuition takes over and one minute he's on the top rope, attempting a Starship pain. The next, he's dizzily slumping over and hitting the apron with a dull thud. It happens so fast, he's not even sure what hit him until the referee leans over him and immediately calls the match before demanding a trainer.

Miz and, strangely enough, Teddy Long, arrive before the trainer, barely concealed worry on Miz's face contrasting harshly with the annoyance on Teddy's. "What happened?" Mike demands, waving the fussing ref back and supporting Morrison as he slowly sits up.

"Dunno," John groans, coughing thickly into his wrist pad as Miz grimaces next to him. "This... this isn't normal," he manages, swaying slightly until his position is changed and he's leaning back, propped against Miz' shoulder. "Thanks."

"I know you get bad colds a lot, but nothing like this," he mutters, frowning as Morrison shifts, trying to get away from Miz' cold arm. "Hey..." He gingerly reaches up and touches Morrison's forehead, ignoring how clammy the man is-- unnaturally so, considering the short match he was just in. "Dammit. You're feverish."

Morrison could've told Miz this, and why the man seems so surprised has him squinting against the still too-bright lights overhead, but before he can see or say anything, a third face pops into his line of vision, and begins touching him, asking him questions about how he feels. The trainer, then.

The trainer hears Mike's comment and starts off by taking John's temperature, sighing in confirmation. He then moves on to examining the man, asking random questions. After hearing some of his symptoms-- headache, dizziness, congestion-- the trainer begins packing things up. "I think someone needs a trip to the ER." Morrison balks, groaning slightly before the trainer stares him down. "It's probably not a big deal, just a sinus infection, but you need it checked out. Wrestling when you feel this bad is really asking for trouble. You make him do it, alright?"

Mike half groans, half nods, as the trainer turns his piercing glare onto him. "I will!" he says almost defensively. Of course, doing so would be like swallowing nails dry. Most wrestlers are like that, though. They like to fight through the pain, and when it is something seemingly trivial like a cold, _sinus infection,_ they completely ignore it as well as they can, thus when Morrison is sick, Miz tends to brush it off, and be discreet with pushing tag matches to Teddy Long... However, Morrison's never passed out in front of thousands of people before.

"Long's gonna bitch now that I can't finish the match," Morrison says hoarsely as Miz leads him up the ramp to the locker rooms.

"Long can deal," he snips, glancing over his shoulder just in time to see the General Manager talking seriously with the trainer, frowning thoughtfully. "It's what he gets for making you wrestle so much lately," he continues, lowly.

"What?" Morrison breathes, stumbling a bit on the shift of position as they leave the ramp.

"Nothing." Mike grips his upper arms and waits till he has his equilibrium back. "For your sake, I hope the ER isn't too busy."

"Don't you mean your sake?" he shoots back, sniffing thickly for the thousandth time in the last three days.

If Mike ignores the weak tone, and John's arms twitching a bit under his hands, he can pretend for a little while that it's just another normal day.


	7. One Person's Problems

It's obvious it's going to be a long night when ECW is long over and Morrison is still stewing. Last Miz knew, he was the one who lost, so why Morrison is acting like it was something personal makes positively no sense.

Finally having enough of the uncomfortable silence, he mutters something about coming back in a few minutes, grabs his laptop and books it outside where the cooling air brushes against his skin, relieving him of a good deal of the tension that had been growing while he lounged in his and Morrison's locker room.

Why John's in such a horrible mood, he doesn't know. He slumps against a trunk that gets dragged to every event, close enough to "borrow" the arena's wireless, but far enough outside to still feel the wind.

After a quick email check, he decides to do something that always provides him with some cheap laughs... A minute later, he's skimming article titles on a somewhat well known wrestling rumor and news site when he spots it. Pieces of the puzzle begin falling into place slowly as he reflects.

_"I'll be back in a minute, Long wants to talk to me before the show starts," Morrison says in a long suffering tone before leaving._

_When he comes back, he kind of looks like someone kicked his pet but Miz can't find the words to ask why without sounding too worried (He has an image to protect, after all, even if it is just _John)_, and before he can think up a solution, his match is next and he has to go._

_--_

_"What the hell was that?!" Morrison yells, looking back and forth from Miz to Bourne and Ortiz._

_"I lost, what does it look like?!" Miz demands, a bit unsettled by the anger on his tag partner's face._

"Don't get distracted by me, I can handle myself!" he yells, face getting redder as he spots Ortiz with his sunglasses. "You would've had it!"

_--_

"Well. It all makes sense," he mutters to himself, kicking his heels against the trunk in agitation. "Alright, I can fix this. I hope."

He snaps the computer shut and heads back into the arena, hoping that Morrison's not too far gone to actually listen to him.

He's writing a poem when Mike slowly reenters, the room lit slightly with the glow from Morrison's laptop and nothing else.

Knowing that breaking his concentration would do nothing more than annoy Morrison further, he sits and waits patiently until the lights are back on and the laptop is closed. "We heading out?" John asks blankly, collecting his things.

"Sure," Miz says, grabbing his hat and stuffing his laptop in its case. "I have a quick stop I want to make before we go back to the hotel though."

Morrison's lack of response _almost_ depresses Miz.

--

"A _bar?_" Morrison finally says, once they're inside. "Why?"

"I think you need to loosen up, Shaman," Miz says simply, motioning to the bartender.

"What you want?" she asks, boredly wiping down a glass.

"I don't want anything," he says stubbornly, turning away from the bar to eye the clientele.

Miz sighs and huffs at once, before leaning closer to the bartender. "Two of whatever's on tap." Once the mugs are in hand, he's just about to nudge Morrison over to a table when he realizes John's sitting on a stool. He sits next to him, gingerly sipping from the mug. Beer is not his drink of choice, but it seems fitting for this tonight. "Here." Without taking no for an answer, he presses the second mug into John's hands and rests his on the bar.

The plan's not to get Morrison drunk, but Miz figures a night away from his troubles would be ok-- if that website was correct... and considering the timing of John's anger, it more than likely is. A bitter feeling that's not just the beer spreads through him as he considers the near impossible business they've found themselves in.

Silence falls upon them as Miz looks around and Morrison stares down into his beer, swirling it around now and again. At some point, he stops paying attention and mimics Morrison's activity, only half watching his tag partner.

"What the hell..." an almost familiar voice slurs in Miz's ear. "I can't get away from these idiots..."

Mike turns, and raises an eyebrow as Chris Jericho wavers back and forth in front of him. "What the hell, indeed? What are YOU doing here?"

"Headin' for, uh, Ohio," he finally manages out, alcohol pouring out of his glass randomly every time he moves back and forth. "What are you doin' here?"

"ECW event was here tonight," Morrison says in a monotone, his interest finally piqued as he too turns to stare at the wasted world champion.

"Chris!"

"Cade!" Jericho calls back, turning just as his protégé runs up, a pinched, half-disgusted half-worried look on his tanned face. "Where'd you run o' to?"

"I didn't run off anywhere, you did," Cade says, gripping his arms tightly. "Jericho, I think you've had enough, ok, man? Let's go."

"Nuh- nuh, no!" Jericho slaps his grip away. "It's still up here, ok? I-- I still remember, and I don't _want_ to."

Morrison and Miz share a glance for the first time since they've arrived, both men looking surprised.

"Jericho..." Cade says slowly. "You don't know--"

"Yes, I do! It happened last time, nothing's changed-- It's still 2002, ok? Ratings plummet, guess who gets blamed? That's right, the top dog!" he says, slurring less as his speech gets more emotional. He points waveringly at Miz and Morrison, blinking heavily as he tries to stare at them. "You two-- have it lucky, you don't have to carry your brand and shoulder all its bad times, you just... you..."

Cade moves fast when he wants to, Miz reflects later. Jericho's wavering worse, face pale and slick with sweat, but before something can happen, Lance is there, fisting his hands in his jacket, keeping him up right. "Hey, hey, Chris, come on, man. Let's get you out of here, eh?"

As the two men awkwardly make their way out of the bar, Cade trying not to stumble over Jericho's feet, Morrison and Miz slowly follow, not even sure why they are. "He gonna be ok?" Morrison surprises Miz by asking, stuffing his hands in his pockets as Lance slowly eases Chris into the backseat.

"Ah, yeah. He just had a bad day." Cade raises an eyebrow at the co-hosts of Dirt Sheet. "If any of this gets mentioned on your goofy show..."

Miz shrugs. "I didn't see anything show worthy. Did you, Morrison?"

"I think our show's booked for awhile. Maybe next time."

Cade examines them for a minute, eyes steely in the moon light overhead. "Good, keep it that way." He quickly gets in the car and drives off, as if he's afraid that they'll change their minds and take pictures or something.

"You had enough of the bar yet?" Morrison finally asks, after a few minutes of standing quietly in the parking lot.

"Ah, I guess," Miz says smoothly, examining his partner as he wanders back to the rental. Mike may only be seeing what he wants to see, but to him, it appears John's just a little more relaxed so maybe witnessing how much worse this business could wear a person down was good for him.

What Jericho's going through sucks for sure, but if it helped Morrison ground himself for a bit longer, then that's a good thing in Mike's book.


	8. Punctured

So by now you all know I'm an HC junkie. Right? Right. Thus most of my fics involve SOME measure of Hurt/Comfort. And it usually falls into the same role. Character A gets hurt, and character B fusses. A lot. If this ever gets old, let me know. :P

First thing Mike notices is there's a lot of activity next to him, which is weird because everything was kind of blurred and quiet, dark and motionless, not that long ago. His eyes snap open as he remembers-- the sensations from earlier is because that insane idiot, Ortiz, leapt on top of him after he and Morrison were counted out during their match.

His eyes snap open and track the sounds of hurried speech before dropping on something that's become disturbingly familiar in the past few months. Morrison, surrounded by a cluster of refs, and trainers, and-- and... EMTs? He knows then it's bad and all the aggravation he's been holding in since their match drains out like a seive as he scurries awkwardly over, pain stabbing up his rib cage from the splash earlier. "What happened?" he demands, leaning over to get a good look at his partner. John's pale, breathing shallowly as the EMTs work on him. No one responds, so he speaks in a forceful tone. "What happened?!"

The ref whose name he can never remember who officiated their match finally turns to him and explains how Ortiz attacked Morrison, how John got up briefly, just to collapse again shortly after the show ended.

Before Miz can ask anything, an EMT turns to him. "What's his recent medical history?"

"Uhh, he had a sinus infection a couple weeks ago, but that cleared up and he's been fine since. What's going on?"

"Think his lung was punctured... He definitely has some broken ribs, and he's having problems breathing. We have to move him now. Let's go."

Miz is left behind briefly, dazed on the ring apron, as they prep Morrison and then roll him onto a stretcher, speeding it to a waiting ambulance. "Wait, wait," he mutters desperately, coming back to himself and dashing after the stretcher.

--

Mike hates hospitals. They become a common occurrence, especially in WWE, but it still sucks to wait for news in a lifeless waiting room, especially if it's your tag partner who's far, far away getting who knows what done to him because you were down on the mat while he got beat up. The month's been pretty damn bad for Miz, but downright horrible for Morrison between them being on a losing spree, the sinus infection, higher ups ragging on his ability and now this tonight. No wonder his temper's been so combustible lately...

"John Morrison? Anyone here with John Morrison?" the familiar voice of the doctor that Miz talked with briefly earlier calls through the waiting room before locking eyes with him as he gets up and heads over.

"How is he, doc?"

"He's stabilized, and in his room now. We put him on oxygen, and put a chest tube in just to be safe. We'll be monitoring him closely for awhile, so a nurse'll be in shortly."

Miz nods, taking it all in quietly. "When do I have to leave?" At the doctor's confused look, he clarifies. "Visiting hours."

"Oh. Well, Mr. Morrison has a private room, so the nurses will probably give you some leeway with it. Just don't stay all night; the patients aren't the only ones who need sleep, after all." With a small smile, the doctor points two doors away. "There's his room."

Mike nods, mumbles a quick thank you, and walks quickly to the door. He stops at the doorway, unwilling just yet to enter. Another thing he's getting too used to, he steels himself and walks the rest of the way. "Crap," he mutters, taking in the loud equipment surrounding John and how even paler his tag partner looks than he did while in the ring.

He apparently falls into a bit of a doze while sitting next to Morrison's bed, because a loud cough almost sends him flinging out of the uncomfortably too-padded chair. "Wha?!"

"Sorry, sorry," another familiar voice speaks up awkwardly, as footsteps come closer. He squints up to find the referee from their match-- which feels like it was ten years ago-- staring down at him. "Didn't mean to scare you," the ref continues. "I... you left your stuff at the arena, so I thought I'd bring them in... How's he doing?"

Mike scrubs a hand over his tired, grimy face and squints up at him. "He's sleeping off sedatives. They had to put a chest tube in. Say he should be ok, though."

"Well that's good," the ref says-- and finally his name comes to Miz, almost causing him to choke on his own saliva at the stupidity of it all. Mike Posey, obviously. "Here," Posey continues, handing off Miz' hat and Morrison's sunglasses.

Miz watches in a detached fashion as Posey carefully drapes Morrison's coat over a nearby chair and leans back, fiddling with the insanely expensive sunglasses gingerly.

"Well, just wanted to drop them off... so... er, hope he wakes up soon," the referee states, obviously awkward. When Miz simply blinks at him, no words forming in his tired brain, he nods jerkily and leaves.

"C'mon, Morrison, you don't want me to risk dropping your glasses, eh?" Miz taunts tiredly, after a few more minutes of silence. "I will if you don't wake up and entertain me..."

--

_"So, flip a coin?" Morrison asks flippantly, leaning against the wall as Miz wanders over to the couch in their locker room._

"What?"

_"What's the point of wrestling this match, man? Let's just flip, bs our way through it, and then--"_

"What, you think one of us should just be pinned for the other?" Miz scoffs. "No, I want to do this the normal way."

_Morrison's face hardens as his stance stiffens. "Fine."_

_"Fine."_

_--_

"Maybe it woulda been better if we had," Miz says around a yawn, laying Morrison's glasses on the tray "Too late now..." He's asleep within a minute, arm cushioning his head on John's bed, his fingers twitching against the tray as Morrison too sleeps on.


	9. Changes

It's 8:55 PM when Mike decides it's time to wake Morrison-- it's John's birthday but he's got a cold bad enough to leave him sleeping on this crappy hotel bed in Oregon as they wait for No Mercy to come and go so they can head over to Washington for the next ECW taping.

He heads for the fridge and purposely jostles his tag partner's foot with his arm on his way past. "Hey, John, wake up!" As he jerks awake groggily, Mike continues talking loudly, to bring his partner back to life completely. "Turn to Smackdown, huh?" He waits long enough to make sure his partner doesn't doze back off, and tosses the remote to him before continuing his mission, digging around.

As John fumbles with the remote, Mike struggles to remain patient, counting to fifteen before sitting on the edge of his bed. "Here." He hands over some orange juice before popping open his own soda, ignoring Morrison's baleful glare. As he looks up at the TV, he stares for a long moment and says, "Uh. This isn't Smackdown."

Morrison tilts his head, then looks past Miz to the screen. "Oh. I forgot."

"Channel 13, not 3," Miz corrects slowly, sipping at his soda to block the view of his lips twitching from the Shaman.

"Meh, maybe I thought it was Cryme Tyme," he grumbles unhappily, flicking the channel away from "Everybody Hates Chris" to the correct show.

Miz chuckles slightly, before snagging some leftover pizza from the table between their beds. "Damn change anyhow," he mutters before settling back in.


	10. Shiny

SHORT fic warning. No substance here really.

"Come on, Shaman, we're up next," Miz calls into the changing area, tapping his foot against the tile flooring boredly. "Move it."

"Shut up, I'm coming, I'm coming."

"Man, the heck are you doing in there? Dyeing your hair?" A weird vision of Morrison with blond hair gets stuck in Miz' mind and he chokes slightly, breathing in deeply and calming as Morrison finally comes out. "What the--"

"Shut up."

"Nuh- man, what the Hell?" Miz continues, ignoring him, a disbelieving look on his face. "You... glittered your abs? Why?"

Morrison just glares as his tag partner's face twitches. "Miz..."

Ignoring the warning tone, he chokes out, "Are you that jealous of my hats?"

"The Tuesday Night Delight isn't jealous of anything," Morrison responds in a steely tone before leaving the room in a glittery flurry.

"OH God," Miz mutters, giving himself a brief moment to contain his mirth before following the man to the ring.


	11. Hit the Wall

Miz has left the hotel room for a minute, requiring sodas and food, when he hears a weird thud from behind the door he's just barely pushed shut.

Curious despite himself at what his tag partner is getting into, he pushes the door back open, relieved that it's well-oiled as he spies Morrison attempting to punch his fist through the wall, angry growls coming from his lips.

"Whoa, whoa!" Miz yells, rushing in and grabbing a pillow in time to block Morrison's fist from hitting the plaster again. "Idiot," he says. "Do you want to break your hand?"

Morrison doesn't even acknowledge his voice, still glowering at the wall before him.

"John, what the hell...?" he continues, holding the pillow in front of him like a shield, as if it would protect him from the emotional and physical effects of Morrison's anger. "What's wrong with you?" He takes the continuing silence as a bad thing, and slips between Morrison and the wall, eyeing him.

As if unbiddened, Morrison's breathless growls turn into weary murmurs, as he stares unseeingly at Miz. "I try so hard... no matter what I do, I get told I waste my chances by playing things off for laughs... then I try to be serious and I get booted out of the ring by jackasses like JBL! When I'm trying to do something I think anyone else would like... why do I bother..."

Miz's jaw drops a bit in the middle of his friend's admission, and he allows the pillow to slip from lifeless fingers. "Morrison..."

"Why do you bother?" he asks, his eyes hazy as he stares quietly at the wall that's dented from his fist. "What makes you keep tag teaming with me? I'm worthless."

Miz takes his time, quietly picking up the pillow, as he wanders past Morrison and sits on the bed nearest him. "I bother because you've stuck with me, highs and lows, for the last year," he says slowly, thinking about his answer so he doesn't say the wrong thing, which is a common thing for him, because John's having enough of a pity party... no point in both of them bringing him down. "You realize that, right? It's been _twelve months_ since we won the tag titles. Hell, John, we didn't even _like _each other back then, but we stuck it out. Look at us now, you know?" He pauses as Morrison gazes back at him, obviously weighing his words. "So we had a bad night, it's ok. It happens. We'll get back at JBL somehow for this. Besides, he's just jealous because he wishes he could look as good as this." He motions to himself, and then to John, who looks a bit more relaxed as his tangent comes to an end.

"You're right," he says, his voice a little stronger now. "Tomorrow'll be a new day."

"That's the spirit," Miz says with a smirk. "Now then, I believe I was going to get some food... You won't be tempted to punch a wall before I get back, will you?"

Morrison's eyes drift to the wall, but he doesn't answer right away. "Hm. You said it's been a whole year?"

"Yeah?"

"Ah, screw it, let's celebrate," he decides, grabbing his wallet. "I'm tired of these four walls."

Miz's smirk grows into a grin, as he leads the way. "Now you're talking. Come on."


	12. Ridiculous

The hotel room is quiet, peaceful. Boring. Miz sighs and looks around, before his eyes rest on Morrison's laptop. He hadn't brought his own laptop because he was running behind in packing before heading to the Smackdown event... and John was going to be gone for awhile, requiring silence to work on his next poem.

Shrugging, Mike snags the device and turns it on while he tosses a bag of chips out of reach-- no need annoying John more by getting crumbs and grease all over his keyboard. He checks his Myspace first and finds a link to a topic at a message board one of his many fans had left for him in the comments.

After checking his email and a couple other things, he's drawn back to that link and clicks it. He laughs when he finds it leads to Jericho's message board, of all things. His good humor quickly dies when he actually _reads_ the topic it had directed him to...

"Morrison should start teaming with Brian Kendrick, that'd be perfect! Miz is worthless." It's nothing new, he's used to the fans disliking him and discrediting his abilities but this is different, more personal somehow. They had teamed with Kendrick just hours before, and it was somewhat awkward, especially since Kendrick didn't seem to be willing to let Miz tag in. Even so, they as always had done what needed to be done, despite the fact neither of them truly liked Kendrick, and so the match had been won.

Miz is so busy thinking back on the match that he doesn't notice how late it's getting until the obvious sounds of Morrison returning brings him back to reality.

**--------**

Morrison is halfway inside the hotel, juggling the hotel key and his notebook, when he sees Miz slap his laptop closed and move away from it, as if burned. "Whatcha doing?" he asks easily, unbothered by Mike being on his computer.

Mike stares for a minute before standing. "I need some air." He pushes past Morrison and leaves quickly before John's able to argue.

"Uh. Ok?" he mutters, gazing at his computer. "Well, what did he find on you that caused _that_ sort of reaction?" It takes a few moments for the computer to reawaken after the rude way Miz treated it, but Miz's issue is fairly obvious as soon as the screen lights back up.

Morrison sighs, feeling tired creatively and physically. "Great," he grumbles, checking the clock to find it's now past midnight. He sits down to wait, knowing Miz will want to sleep at _some_ point.

-------------

Miz returning awakens John, nearly sending him off the couch in surprise before he comes to the rest of the way and eyes his tag partner. Miz is sweaty and no-less grumpy looking than he was when he left, so obviously the time he spent in the exercise room hadn't helped him. He goes straight to the bathroom without looking at Morrison, and the sound of the shower running fills the hotel a few moments later.

Morrison rubs the grit from his eyes and checks his email while he waits. Miz, luckily, is a quick showerer, and comes out before Morrison finishes reading his Myspace comments, already dressed for bed in a worn out "No Mercy" shirt and sweat pants.

**"**Hey, Mike--" he starts, but the man walks resolutely to the bed he claimed when they first arrived and settles in under the thin sheets, turning his back to Morrison. John's eyebrows raise up towards his hairline as he gapes at his suddenly anti-social tag partner. _Well, damn. That post really bugged him. Stupid fangirls._

Mike's far from asleep, staring tiredly at the wall in front of him. He wishes his brain was as blank, as he ponders every petty disagreement he and John had ever had... every match lost, every issue they worked through the past year of their partnership.

He's interrupted, however, when a hand nudges his shoulder. "I know you're not asleep," Morrison's sleep-thickened voice says as a weight settles on the bed near Mike, pressing the sheets down around him. "I saw that comment on the computer. So, what's the problem? You think Kendrick and I'd be a better tag team than you and I? That's not like you."

He doesn't want to answer, he's too worn out to even voice all the thoughts running through his mind, but he can tell Morrison's not going to leave until he says something so finally he does. "I don't want to talk about this, just go awa--"

"Oh, no. Nah, we're talking about this. I want to be able to go to bed without knowing you're over here pouting at the wall or whatever the hell it is you're doing." Morrison's voice softens when he speaks again. "You know internet fans can be ridiculous. Geez, man, we've both had much worse crap said about us than _that..._"

"Maybe you would be better off with Kendrick," he finally breathes, fisting one hand around the sheets angrily. "At least he has fans."

Morrison is thrown, utterly speechless at this. "M... Mike, what the hell?"

"I mean, damn, John, to those people, I've been holding you back for the last year! In their eyes, you should be competing singles and I should just fade away off their precious little TVs..."

Morrison regains his voice a few moments after Miz's tapers off, and taps him angrily on the shoulderblade. "Hey. You're seriously letting people get to you? Just because of one stupid little post, all the others suddenly matter? What _happened_ to you?"

"Maybe I decided to stop living in a land of delusion," Miz grouses, hiding his face in his pillow even more. "Just... just leave me alone."

"Oh, no, not-- I don't think so," Morrison growls, angrily tugging on the sheets Miz is hiding under. "Were we thrown together out of nothing back November '07? Yes. Did it stop us from winning the tag belts and keeping them for longer than anyone thought we would? No. Did it stop us from winning, not only two slammies, but the OTHER tag belts within a week? I mean, come on. I don't want Brian Kendrick as my damn tag team partner. Last I checked, you're the one who I trust to watch my back week in, week out in these matches..."

Mike relaxes somewhere in the middle of this rant, and actually seems to be _listening,_ which is a very good thing, so Morrison continues, throwing a little levity into his words.

"Why would I want to team with Kendrick anyway? He wishes he was as cool as us, look at what he wore tonight-- he was obviously mimicking us with that crappy red thing he had on." He pauses for a bit but Mike doesn't react at all, so he continues, "The Palace of Wisdom doesn't allow ripped jackets. Or prancing."

"He _does_ look like a fairy," Miz says finally with a breathy kind of laugh, which encourages Morrison to stand, allowing him to roll onto his back, where they glance at each other for a moment before John looks away, awkwardly.

"You alright now?"

"Yeah. Uh, thanks." He watches as Morrison nods and heads for the other bed, before rolling onto his stomach and bunching his pillows up. His body slowly relaxes as he dozes off almost immediately, all thoughts about fans and their opinions not touching his dreams.


	13. Finite

**January 24th, 2010.** Miz grimaces at the calendar as he waits for the trainer to come back from whatever he ran off to do.

It's the yearly Royal Rumble pay per view and Miz was the 20th entrant. Everything was going well until he was eliminated, hitting the protective wall splitting the action from the audience ribs first, so the trainer insisted on this little visit.

The last time Miz was in the city of Atlanta, Georgia, he had been drafted to Raw and left John Morrison laying. He remembers it like it was yesterday-- the look on Morrison's face, the interview he gave, the high he was on afterwards, everything.

He's wondering if it's still as fresh in John's mind when there's a commotion at the door.

"What happened?" the trainer is asking as he and one of the many referees support someone in.

"Hit his head on the steps when he was eliminated," the ref explains in an annoyed tone of voice. "Kozlov overdid it, again. He fell unconscious before I could get to him. Probably a concussion."

Williamson, the trainer, sighs. "Ok, thanks. Hopefully this'll be the last one of the evening."

"Yeah. See you later," the ref says before leaving.

"Hey, Mike," Williamson says. "I haven't forgotten you but hang on, ok? I have to call the ER... I'll be right back."

"Ok," he says in exasperation, just wanting to get up and go already. Finally curiosity overcomes him and he sits up tentatively to see who's laid out on the other side of the room.

Somehow he's not surprised to find it's Morrison sprawled out unconscious on a stretcher, one arm limply hanging over the side. He looks away stubbornly, clinging to the memory of the betrayal in Morrison's eye nearly ten months ago.

"Dammit," he mutters a few moments later, awkwardly sliding off of the couch he had claimed after being walked to the back. Holding his abdomen tightly, he wanders over to John's side and rests the man's arm back on his chest. Before he can stop himself, he looks up and stares at the blood seeping down his former partner's forehead. "That looks nasty," he murmurs.

He doesn't move for a long moment and is slightly surprised when he realizes he doesn't really want to. "So... I hear you've been doing good for yourself. I... watch sometimes too, catch up on what's been happening." He becomes very sensitive of the fact that the trainer will be back at any moment and swallows, running his fingers through his spiky hair. "I don't regret what I did, to be honest. It was... difficult at first when you wouldn't even look at me during pay per views and Superstar tapings but in the long run, it was what both our careers needed."

Abruptly talked out, he stares around at the walls before glancing back down at Morrison, who is trembling slightly. "You awake?" he wonders, leaning closer. A second later, his eyes widen as he looks around for something. Upon spotting a blanket nearby, he unfolds it and drapes it over Morrison's bare upper body, muttering under his breath. "This is what you get for always showing off your damn abs." His lips twitch upwards briefly before he leaves the room, not wanting to wait around for the trainer any longer.

-----------

A little later, Morrison's eyes flutter open, a familiar voice echoing distantly in his mind. He knows immediately he's in the trainer's room by the feel of the stretcher under him and the pounding in his skull but for once, he's warm and almost comfortable. He slowly looks up and eyes the blanket covering him while squinting because of the light shining overhead. Done with that, he starts looking around the room, uncertain about why he's been left alone.

He pauses when he catches sight of a familiar looking hat resting on the nearby couch and stares. "Miz?" he finally murmurs, trying to sit up and failing when his head reiterates how unwise such a move would be right now. He's about to call for someone when he hears footsteps and rests his head back, closing his eyes to wait for the trainer to come to his side and question him.

Instead, the footsteps stop a few feet away. "Further proof my memory sucks, like you always goaded me about."

_Miz? _John thinks but wisely keeps quiet as Mike leaves once more. When he opens his eyes and looks, the hat's gone. "Go figure," he mutters.

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This may be my final Miz and Morrison fic. If so, it's kind of the end of an era for me. If corneroffandom is to be believed, my first Mizorrison fic was written on July 9th, 2008. Not even a year and I feel I've grown a lot as a writer with them. But as their tag team was split up for their (hopefully) betterment, so will this be a betterment for me as a writer, I hope.

On the other hand, I'm a bit of a shifty person who changes her mind often and I go wherever the muse takes me, so this may not be the end of the line for me as a Mizorrison writer. Never say never, the boys more than likely may cross paths again down the road and give me ideas. We'll see.


End file.
